


Tired

by purplekitte



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Depression, Gen, POV Second Person, Somewhere post 2.5 but no specific spoilers, ambiguous WoL, petting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7004503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplekitte/pseuds/purplekitte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re curled up on yourself, without even the energy to sob.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tired

You’re curled up on yourself, without even the energy to sob. Without the energy to do anything, it is quickly confirmed, when someone else settles next to you on the bed in your inn room.

You know you’re not in physical danger. This isn’t how it would go if they meant to kill you, so this is just about gloating and the games between your god and theirs.

 _I hate you, I’ll kill you,_ you think viciously, but you don’t sit up, don’t reach for a weapon. You tell yourself it would be fine if you just moved. Muscle memory and adrenaline would take over. You’ve fought every day for years. You could do it in your sleep. You’ve beat primals. You’ve killed Ascians before. The part of you insisting you’d make a few flailing punches like a child having a tantrum and fall to the ground is underestimating who you are, however exhausted you may be. You’re only imagining the weariness, like you are the swelling your joints insist should be the result of how far you’ve come and the tug of scars you don’t have—they were physick-ed away the moment you were injured.

You don’t even flinch as a hand is placed softly on your temple and slowly begins to brush your hair.

_Hate you, hate you, HATE YOU._

Your head is brought to rest on your visitor’s lap. You close your eyes, but you can feel the layers of the robe under your cheek, the thick wool and velveteen concealing the host beneath. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps petting you gently. You’re sure it has to be condescending, but you can’t sense that from his movements, and you refuse to look at that masked face.

You can’t say anything either. You’re terrified what would come out if you weren’t clenching your jaw would be a whimper. You’re terrified you would beg him not to stop and leave you alone. You miss so much being treated gently like this you can’t stand it. You know this has to be part of the whole cycle of abuse the Ascians have for you: isolating you from (or killing) your friends, making you expect violence at every turn, leaving you so damn grateful for any scrap of affection from anyone.

Still, when you don’t have anyone you can call a friend and trust with your weakness, at least you have good enemies.


End file.
